


Five Times...

by shatteredwriters



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Coping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Everyone Loves Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:20:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24043495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredwriters/pseuds/shatteredwriters
Summary: Five times Hawkeye really didn't need help. And one time he did.
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, B. J. Hunnicutt & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce & Original Character(s), Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce & Sherman Potter, Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, Radar O'Reilly & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	1. Five Times Hawkeye Pierce Was Fine

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! Here's a small collection of episode tags I've been working on about our favorite surgeon, Hawkeye Pierce. I've also got one AU chapter in the works, so stay tuned! This has been sitting written for awhile but I've finally gotten some free time to post it. So without further ado, enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times Hawkeye Pierce was fine, and didn't need help from anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we go! Five times Hawkeye said he was fine. All episode tags to some of my favorite Hawkeye-centric episodes. Happy reading!

_Sometimes You Hear the Bullet_ (1x17)

It was cool that night, and still. Blessedly so after the unsufferable heat and noise from the OR. _Rule number one is young men die. And rule number two is doctors can’t change rule number one._ Hawkeye wasn’t sure if he believed that. He looked up at the stars, twinkling hundreds of thousands of miles away, and took a breath. It made him feel small and insignificant gazing at the galaxies far above. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to scream, hit something, drink heavily, punch someone, hug his dad…or sit down and cry. So, he just stood there, staring up into space, and let his mind go blank. He tried to funnel all his pent up and over-spilling emotions into the air, shooting them past the clouds so that he wouldn’t have to _feel_ anymore. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye as a shooting star burst across the night sky and disintegrated into oblivion. Hawkeye didn’t want anyone’s pity or help; they all knew that Tommy was his friend and he had watched him die on his table. He’d manage on his own. A fog of breath escaped his lips, looming like a cloud in the cool air. He’d be fine. Like he always had.

\---M*A*S*H---

_Abyssinia, Henry_ (3x24)

_There were no survivors…_

There was no amount of gin in the still that could erase the way Radar spoke those words, leaning heavily onto an instrument tray. Margaret sniffled, Frank stared off blankly, Father Mulcahy quietly prayed, and Trapper stood impossibly still. They had all mechanically finished their respective surgeries. Not a single joke was said. The only sounds had been the clatter of instruments and the quiet sobs of the people that knew Henry Blake the best. It just wasn’t…fair. Hawkeye had given Margaret a shoulder to cry on outside of the OR, feeling her tears soaking through his jacket, running a soothing hand up and down her back. He’d brought Radar his dinner when the young corporal hadn’t appeared in the mess tent that night, distracting him with as many jokes and humorous stories he could think of. And finally, he’d lent a comforting ear as Trapper got drunker and drunker, reminiscing about old times and happy memories with Henry. He was now currently passed out on his cot, mid-drink, the redness around his eyes and stuffed nose evidence of his tears.

Hawkeye silently plucked the martini glass from Trapper’s slack grip and got his friend ready for bed. He unlaced his boots, stowed his drinking hat safely beneath his cot, and pulled the blanket up and over his friend. Hawkeye collapsed onto his cot and finished off his glass. He felt the familiar burn of the alcohol harshly cutting down his throat. He’d lost track of how many he’d knocked back. The unsuspecting injustice from earlier had settled like a dense fog over the 4077th, and for the first time that day, Hawkeye allowed the unshed tears to fall from his sky-blue eyes.

\---M*A*S*H---

_Welcome to Korea, Part 1_ (4x1)

 _He’s gone, Hawkeye. He got his orders. He’s been shipped stateside._ For a moment, the cold water hitting his face and the headache that had taken up permanent residence in his skull were forgotten. _Trapper’s gone. He got his orders._ A weight settled heavily in Hawkeye’s chest. He wouldn’t have…he couldn’t have. Trapper. Gone. Just like that. He knew Hawkeye had been on R&R…he would have waited. Radar had to be joking. But as he met the corporal’s distraught look, Hawkeye knew that what he’d said was the truth. Trapper hadn’t even said goodbye. _No note? A letter? Nothing?_ The negative response from Radar nearly shattered Hawkeye right then and there. After all they’d been through together, it just didn’t make sense...

 _I missed Trapper by ten minutes_.

His chest wasn’t expanding enough, or maybe he’d forgotten how to breathe. Everything around him was going in slow motion. Hawkeye took in the clean-cut, new to the army Captain Hunnicutt extending his hand to him, but he didn’t really _see_ him. He tried to focus on the guy’s face, but it kept swimming in front of his eyes and morphing into Trapper’s. His best friend in the whole wide world, and he didn’t even leave him a note? They were in too public of a place to truly let on how he felt like he’d been sucker punched in the gut, how his entire world was imploding. Instead of collapsing in the dirt, succumbing to the tears welling in his eyes, and crying for the friends he seemed to just keep _losing_ , Hawkeye obfuscated with a forced joke about a geisha and a back massage. He’d be fine. He had to be, at least for now. He just had to get back to camp and then he could drown his sorrows in terrible gin and surrender to the sweet nothingness of sleep.

\---M*A*S*H---

_The Late Captain Pierce_ (4x5)

He was dead. At least his dad thought so. And there was no way to reach him. He couldn’t tell his dad that this was all a big misunderstanding. He couldn’t call and he couldn’t write and say “Hi I’m still alive! Don’t worry about me!” It tore at him. He was helpless; at the mercy of the army postal service and the communications black out imposed by Eisenhower’s visit. Hawkeye hated feeling helpless. He became a doctor and a surgeon so he didn’t ever have to feel that way again—he could change things, save people, do something with his life, stave off the threat of impending death.

Hawkeye chugged the last of his gin and stared into the emptiness at the bottom of his glass. Did his dad walk absentmindedly down the road towards the Gillis house, sharing a drink with Tommy’s mom and reminiscing about the sons they’d lost in Korea? Did he maybe crumble up the telegram, chucking it in the trash and refusing to believe it? Did he stare blankly out the window, watching the sun rise and fall, hoping against all hope that maybe this was just a dream? Hawkeye didn’t want to think about his dad, all alone in Crabapple Cove, mourning _him_. That wasn’t how it was supposed to work; parents weren’t supposed to lose their children. But there’d been so many kids he’d lost on his table and so many kids who were too far gone for him to save, that he knew this sentiment was no longer true. There were mothers and fathers grieving their sons. Too many families grieving a brother, father, cousin, or uncle. Grief was never supposed to knock on the Pierce’s door. At least it wasn’t supposed to be for Hawkeye.

The martini glass shattered against the wooden door, exploding in a burst of glass shards and undrinkable gin. Hawkeye was drunker than he had been in quite a long time. _The drunkest dead guy he’d ever met_. The gin dripped slowly down the door of the Swamp as Hawkeye’s tears fell silently. He hadn’t even realized he was crying until the cold wind whistling through the tent bit at his damp cheeks.

Hawkeye scooped up the larger pieces of glass off the floor, knowing full well B. J. would notice them immediately and corner him into talking. He didn’t feel like talking…what was there to say? He was fine, or at least he would be after he’d get through to his dad. Hawkeye was fine and he didn’t need a heart to heart. He was a dead man technically. And the dead rarely speak.

\---M*A*S*H---

_Hawk’s Nightmare_ (5x14)

Hawkeye shot up in bed, a silent scream dying on his lips. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his heart felt like it was about to beat right out of his chest. His hands started shaking and he fisted them into his blanket, trying desperately to quell the fear coursing through his veins. The cold, sightless eyes of Radar, B. J., Margaret, and Potter faded from his mind. The familiar surroundings of the Swamp materialized in the darkness around him and he heaved a weary sigh. The nightmares were only getting worse. At least he no longer woke up hollering his lungs out; he felt bad waking up B. J. as often as he did. Sleep was a precious commodity around here and Hawkeye didn’t need anyone else suffering on his account.

When he told B. J. he was scared, it hadn’t occurred to him until just then how truly afraid he was. _It’s one thing to live in a shooting gallery, but now I’m being attacked from inside._ The dreams had morphed from losing his childhood friends in horrific ways to losing the most important people in his life. They kept dying, over and over again, plaguing his dreams and waking thoughts. Each time his friends died he felt a bleak emptiness inside his chest that seemed to consume him. Every night their blood was on his hands and he couldn’t save them. He couldn’t…save them.

_I’m afraid to lie down in my sack. I’m afraid to close my eyes. How do I defend myself from myself?_

_Sidney, I’m afraid to go to sleep._

Hawkeye shook his head, frustrated tears brimming in his eyes. God he was so _tired_. Every minute he spent here felt like a great battle, fighting against the suffering and futility. And now he couldn’t even escape that fight in his sleep; his one means of evading the waking horrors that filled his days was now cruelly twisted and used to inflict further pain.

Hawkeye gingerly lay back on his cot, and a tear slipped down his weary face. His heart beat began to slow and his breathing evened out. Maybe Sidney was right about the end of his nightmares: _When this big one ends, most of the others should go away. But there’s a lot of suffering going on here, Hawkeye, and you can’t avoid it. You can’t even dream it away_. He hoped, more than anything, that this would all pass. He’d be…fine. Fine. His silent mantra held less weight than when he’d used it previously during this war. The tenuous grip he held on his composure was much weaker than he cared to admit. A shaky breath filled the stillness of the Swamp and Hawkeye willed his eyes to shut. He’d fight this like he fought most things, alone. He’d be perfectly fine. He had to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is chapter 2: the one time Hawkeye wasn't fine (not an episode tag, but a little AU drabble).


	2. And One Time He Wasn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one time Hawkeye Pierce was not fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not episode related or tag, an AU drabble about how our favorite dark-haired surgeon copes with the anniversaries of Henry Blake's death and Trapper leaving. Heavy on the Hawkeye/B. J. brotherly love. Plus an added quote at the end from one of my favorite shows, The West Wing. Enjoy!

365 days. A whole year since Radar had told them Henry’s plane went down in the Sea of Japan. A little more time and then it will have been a year since Trapper left, too. Hawkeye hadn’t been entirely sure how he was going to react to these anniversaries, but he hadn’t expected this.

He was well aware that people kept looking at him and whispering. He ignored them. Didn’t have the energy to do much else. Between Potter’s pointed stare and B. J.’s worried glances, he knew they both wanted to ask him. 

Hawkeye Pierce hadn’t said a word in 36 hours. Well, barely spoke was more like it. He mumbled a few words at a time, but that was it. A medical opinion given in post-op, an instrument asked for in OR, a bid made during a nightly poker game. But besides the short phrases here and there, he had barely strung two sentences together.

At first, it was almost comical. He’d never been quiet longer than 15 minutes in his whole life, not even when he was sleeping. But as time dragged on, and not a single joke was made in OR nor a disparaging comment said about the food in the mess tent, the whole camp knew something was up. 

Thankfully, surgery and post-op had been light affairs. Hawkeye didn’t think he’d have been able to hide the tremor in his hands or push back the bone-dead weariness if they’d been overwhelmed. He completed his rounds silently, ate lunch without a word, and retired back to the Swamp soundlessly.

A year ago, he’d lost Henry Blake, a casualty of war; and Trapper, his best friend. Usually he was fine, he could compartmentalize and carry on. But maybe this time around he wouldn’t be able to grin and bear it, pick himself back up, square his shoulders to struggle through another day. His usual deflections and tricks were no use the past few days. Hawkeye was hurting and he needed help.

He told himself over and over that he’d be fine, each repetition of the mantra chased by the bitter sting of alcohol. But it was having no effect. He could no longer tell himself he’d be fine, that lie just didn’t work anymore. All it was accomplishing was getting him much too drunk, much too quickly.

The door to the Swamp swung open silently as B. J. took a tentative step inside. The young surgeon knew that his friend was in trouble, knew that he was hurting badly. He, Margaret, Potter, and Radar had tracked Hawkeye’s movements with barely concealed expressions of worry all week. Both the head nurse and the company clerk, hurting in their own private ways, had clued the new CO and surgeon in about the significance of the week. B. J. had taken it upon himself to try and help, in whatever way he could. It had almost been a year since he had been in Korea, but he knew Hawkeye was thinking about different anniversaries.

“Hawk…?”

The dark-haired surgeon was well on his way to drunk, but this wasn’t the boisterous, rowdy drunkenness that Hawkeye Pierce was famous for. This was a cold drunk, an empty drunk, one devoid of feeling and pursued wholeheartedly with the intention of forgetting.

Hawkeye was tempted, for the briefest alcohol-infused moment, to open up. To confide in B. J. …he was his friend, he’d listen, he’d _help._ A desperate look haunted his blue eyes as he caught B. J.’s gaze. Hawkeye opened his mouth, reaching for a life raft in this storming sea of wallow and self-pity. But just as quickly as that moment came, reality hit like a cold bucket of water. Hawkeye had had a friend before too, one he’d opened up to and told things. Things that he’d never trusted anyone enough before to share. And that friend had _left._ Gone, just like that. See where trust got you? He couldn’t do that again; he couldn’t go down that road again.

“It’s too much, Beej. I-I can’t…”

Hawkeye let out a choked sound and turned roughly away from B. J., piece by piece rebuilding his protective walls.

“Just leave me alone.”

B. J. recoiled from the icy tone and took an instinctive step back. It was obvious Hawk didn’t want to talk. But B. J. wasn’t giving up that easily.

Instead of leaving as Hawkeye had assumed, B. J. crossed the tent and plopped down on his cot facing the brooding surgeon.

“Well, Hawk. I won’t leave you alone. But I won’t force you to talk either. I’ll just sit here, drink this terribly made gin, and keep you company. I’m not going anywhere.”

Hawkeye heard the words coming out of B. J.’s mouth, but remained skeptical. Trust is a finicky thing, he’d been burned before. But as least he wasn’t forcing him to talk. That was something. He just sat there, with an open and honest look on his face.

Time passed. The two doctors sipped their drinks in silence, B. J. watching Hawkeye and Hawkeye avoiding his friend’s gaze.

B. J. tried to imbue his look with the kindness, warmth, compassion, and friendship he felt for his fellow surgeon. Hawkeye was the one person keeping him afloat in this godforsaken place, and B. J. was pretty sure that’s how a lot of others felt, too. Without pressuring him, forcing him to talk, or invading his space, he tried to show Hawk that he was there for him, supporting him no matter what. And, really, that he wouldn’t leave him the way Trapper had.

Hawkeye looked everywhere but B. J.’s eyes…he knew what he’d see there. He had the barest of holds on his composure, his mask faltering but remaining doggedly in place. If he met his friend’s eyes, he knew his walls would crumble. His “I’ll be fine” mantra would officially disappear. He’d have to face all the emotions he’d been bottling up for god knows how long, but especially those that he’d been trying to ignore all week.

Hawkeye felt the familiar burn of emotion welling in the back of his throat as his thoughts drifted to B. J. He’d held him at arm’s length for so long, trying not to repeat the heartache and pain from his friendship with Trapper. But the Californian had wormed his way into his heart. He knew him better than he knew himself. He was always there for him, a shoulder to lean on, someone to listen, someone to drink his sorrows away with. B. J. had showed, time and time again, that he could be trusted and relied upon. He wasn’t like Trapper. Hawkeye knew that B. J. wouldn’t do to him what Trapper did, either. He just had to take that step and trust him. Because if he was being honest...he wasn’t fine. He hadn’t been for quite some time. Sure, that’s what he had told himself when he first got to Korea, when he lost Tommy and then Henry and then Trapper, when he’d worried about what his dad was going through after the army thought he was dead, when he’d thought he’d gone blind for good, when he was ravaged by nightmares. With every bug out, shell explosion, surgery, and glass of gin. _You’ll be fine._

But he wasn’t.

B. J. watched the flow of emotions cross Hawkeye’s face. He could see the battle raging inside of him, a haunted look in his blue eyes. This was a step Hawkeye had to make himself. And he’d be there to help him, support him, and comfort him. Because that’s what best friends do. He’d make it his goal to never let Hawkeye feel alone again, never have to go through anything alone again. He’d be there for Hawkeye the way Hawkeye was always there for him.

Suddenly, a resigned look transformed Hawkeye’s features. His shoulders squared, and he lifted his eyes from the floor to stare fixedly at B. J.

Hawkeye didn’t say anything. Just looked at B. J. as though he were the only safe port in a storm, his salvation. The seconds ticked by. And then, right before B. J. broke the stretched silence, Hawkeye opened his mouth.

A small sob escaped his lips and Hawkeye crumbled, finally allowing himself to _feel_. To feel every loss and painful emotion he had bottled up. To feel every time he’d said he was fine when he really wasn’t. The waves of emotion were drowning him, pressing harshly on his chest, constricting. He wasn’t fine, but this time he wasn’t alone.

B. J. got up slowly, not wanting to spook Hawkeye. He crossed the distance between them quickly, and before he could second guess himself, he plopped down next to his friend and enveloped him in the biggest hug he could muster. He held Hawk the same way he’d held Erin after a bad dream or a scrapped knee. At first, Hawkeye had bristled at the touch. But once he realized that B. J. wasn’t going anywhere, and that he was just trying to show him that he was _there_ , he relaxed into his friend’s arms and let the last of his walls down. And he cried.

They sat like this, B. J. holding Hawkeye, for what felt like hours. Until finally, the sobbing turned into quiet sniffles, and then hitched breathing, and then silence. Hawkeye awkwardly shrugged out of B. J.’s hold on him, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. He looked up at his friend, but then glanced away nervously. Cleared his throat. Composed himself.

“Th-thanks, Beej. I…I don’t know what to say.”

B. J. couldn’t seem to catch Hawk’s eye. He could tell by the nervous wringing of his hands, and the blush on his cheeks, that Hawkeye was embarrassed. B. J. patted Hawkeye’s shoulder reassuringly.

“You don’t have to say anything, Hawk. When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be here. Like I said, I’m not going anywhere.”

The look Hawkeye threw him broke B. J.’s heart. It was haunted, lost, _broken_.

“I promise,” B. J. whispered, a reassuring smile on his face.

Hawkeye let out a shaky breath and threw him a watery half-grin.

“You know, Beej. I always assumed I didn’t need help. I…I’ve been fine in the past, able to pick myself up and fight another day. But today. Today I’m glad I didn’t have to. I’m glad to have a friend like you.”

Hawkeye cleared his throat and didn’t say any more. Emotion and exhaustion made his voice shaky and rough. One day he’d tell B. J. about his Dad and Tommy and Henry and Trapper. But for now, it was enough to know that B. J. was there for him. As a friend. As a brother.

“Hey, Hawk?”

His friend’s blue eyes found his and B. J. was hopeful to see them less pained, less haunted.

“Let me tell you something my dad told me once. This guy's walking down a street, when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep, he can't get out. A doctor passes by, and the guy shouts up ‘Hey you! Can you help me out?’ The doctor writes him a prescription, throws it down the hole and moves on. Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up ‘Father, I'm down in this hole, can you help me out?’ The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by. ‘Hey Joe, it's me, can you help me out?’ And the friend jumps in the hole! Our guy says ‘Are you stupid? Now we're both down here!’ and the friend says, ‘Yeah, but I've been down here before, and I know the way out.’”

Hawkeye caught B. J.’s eye, unshed tears brimming in his eyes, and gave him a small smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading (:

**Author's Note:**

> Last chapter coming soon: the one time Hawkeye Pierce was not fine...


End file.
